


foolish as I am, follow my lead

by lavender_dew



Series: make me an offer I cannot refuse [2]
Category: Great Pretender (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Fake Marriage, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Falling In Love, Getting Together, Heist, Lack of Communication, M/M, Mutual Pining, actual marriage at the end though, be gay do crime (but kind of sadder this time)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-10
Updated: 2020-11-10
Packaged: 2021-03-09 00:34:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27495790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lavender_dew/pseuds/lavender_dew
Summary: Laurent may have figured out he was in love a little earlier, but the process wasn’t easy. It went a little something like this.(Or: a character study through cases, only it's never really about the cases at all. )This is a companion piece to Like the Waters I Cannot Drink through the eyes of Laurent, unpacking some moments leading up to the events in that story that went over Makoto’s head. Please read that one first, it sets up the cases revisited here! This is a slightly darker/more intense take on the mutual pining— putting the burn in slow burn— and not as much of a romcom as the first story, but thanks to that one you already know they figure it out in the end.
Relationships: Edamura Makoto & Laurent Thierry, Edamura Makoto/Laurent Thierry
Series: make me an offer I cannot refuse [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2009299
Comments: 43
Kudos: 440





	foolish as I am, follow my lead

Laurent may have figured out he was in love a little earlier, but the process wasn’t easy. It went a little something like this.

_Singapore_

They’re sitting cross-legged on the floor with papers spread out all over the carpet, eating dim sum from paper takeout containers and poring over financial statements and bets. Laurent watches Makoto stuff a small shrimp dumpling into his mouth with his chopsticks, still laser-focused on the task at hand, and feels inexplicably fond. Makoto’s restrained enough that he’d obviously been taught table manners growing up, but sometimes when it’s just the two of them, he still eats with the eagerness of a child. This was especially true the first few weeks after they met, in Los Angeles, though it seems to have mostly died down by now. Laurent remembers their first encounter and reaches over to prod him to get his attention.

“Hey, Edamame, the thought just occurred to me. What would you have done with the money, if you had conned me successfully back in Japan? You were pretty good, you know— could have gotten away with it, had I been a real tourist. I only saw it coming because I knew you were a thief beforehand.”

Makoto looks down at his takeout container and laughs ruefully as he gestures towards it with his chopsticks. “Honestly? Probably this. I stayed away from the hard stuff and only ran small scams when I needed to, so I didn’t actually make all that much money. I thought about food all the time back then. The day we ran into each other, I remember I was craving dumplings so bad.” He picks up a piece of broccoli from a different container and pops it into his mouth.

Laurent is surprised. He had assumed the other petty criminals working with Makoto would take care of their own. “You weren’t eating?”

“No, no, I was fine. I did that for a while, actually, when we were draining our savings to pay for the hospital bills, but not eating at all was harder than I thought it would be. When I was trying to find a real job and no one would take me, I tried all the usual tricks— hanging out behind restaurants at closing to get leftovers when they threw them out, drinking a ton of water to get full and sleeping all the time so I wouldn’t feel it as much, living on instant ramen. I tried taking up smoking since I heard it kills your appetite, but the cigarettes tasted so bad that I couldn’t even finish my first one. And my mom started noticing that I was losing weight and getting sick a lot, and I felt like shit every time I made her worry.” He says this casually, like it’s just an embarrassing teenage phase he went through, chewing on another bite.

“Still, I also felt like shit when I started stealing. So I just used the cash to pay the hospital and rent bills, and didn’t take more than I had to. I started spending more on food strategically, though, so I wouldn’t look so pathetic when I visited her.” He glances up at Laurent and looks surprised at something he finds in his gaze. “Don’t look so sad, Laurent, I wasn’t starving when we met. I just… never felt full, either, back then. I deserved it, too; I was so convinced I was going to be nothing like my father, but after a few months of dumpster diving and having naps for lunch, my moral compass was already so weak that I was happily robbing tourists on the street. I almost got that random guy in L.A. to pay our tab at the restaurant, too, remember?” He still looks embarrassed. He’s trying to hide it by looking down and selecting another piece of broccoli.

Laurent stares at him. He doesn’t think he’s ever atoned for his mistakes even a fraction as much as Makoto has; the man still feels guilty after two years in prison and even longer than that with an empty stomach. He remembers how gleeful Makoto had been the first time he took him out to eat in America, and how he had chalked it up to brattiness. He pictures an even younger Makoto, barely more than a boy, with hollow cheeks and ribs showing, going to see his mother in the hospital and smiling brightly, telling her he was fine. He feels his insides twist.

Laurent considers himself a fairly decent person (well, for a criminal). He’s the best at what he does, and he uses his abilities selectively to take down people who deserve it. It’s not the path he had originally chosen, but he isn’t losing sleep over it at night anymore. He knows he operates in a morally gray area when he’s actually in the process of swindling, though, even if the ends more or less justify the means— he’s so used to lying and manipulating people that it feels normal to him now, and he doesn’t have any meaningful relationships with people who aren’t criminals themselves. Somewhere along the way, he had shed most of the moral compass Makoto mentioned and stopped asking questions in order to do whatever it took to finish a job. It’s true that he only scams people who deserve it, but he does it sometimes with little remorse for those who get hurt or left behind along the way.

And Makoto... isn’t like that. He isn’t just decent, he’s _good._ He cares about everybody. He’s great with children and small animals. He’s befriending Abbie, one of the hardest, prickliest people Laurent’s ever met. He trusts easily, despite everything, and he believes in people. It makes Laurent feel vulnerable, somehow, even though Makoto’s the one who needs protection. Like every reminder of innocence turns him inside out.

Laurent might be a decent person, but he isn’t a saint. The very first time he laid eyes on Makoto Edamura, he had taken in every inch of him, cocksure and smirking yet still somehow a little puppy-eyed, all messy brown hair and sharp edges like he was still growing into his features, and Laurent immediately knew he wanted. He had looked at him stretched out in that taxi cab and wanted to get his hands and tongue inside him and ruin him until he begged. He’d watched him grin across the swimming pool at him and Abbie, dripping in water and glowing in the sun, incredibly pleased with his victory like a kid gloating after a sporting match, and he had wanted to peel off his swimsuit and wrap Makoto’s legs around his head and suck him off so well he cried.

Laurent was no stranger to attraction. He figured he could live with thinking Makoto was cute; he works with attractive people all the time, and there’s no sense in messing up a good dynamic. So what if he has a bit of a crush? Laurent can deal, he’ll get over it. But right now he looks at Makoto, bashful and quiet with a box of shrimp dumplings in his lap, and Laurent wants to hold him close and makes sure he never, ever goes hungry again.

Makoto has a way of making him feel like that. He does it all the time, without noticing. But Laurent isn’t a saint, so he doesn’t act on it, just tells Makoto he’s done more than enough to make up for his past and hopes Makoto believes him. Then he sneaks one of his own dumplings into Makoto’s takeout box when he isn’t looking and keeps his eyes on their work.

__

_Moscow_

__

They’re camping out in a shitty motel, lightbulbs flickering weakly in the night, two rickety twin beds crammed into a sparsely furnished room. Laurent watches Makoto’s face, relaxed and boyish in sleep. He looks so young like this, unguarded and small— Laurent knows he’s stronger than he looks, knows there’s a filament of steel running down his spine that belies his honest manner, but he also forgets sometimes just how soft Makoto still is, even after all this time.

Laurent used to be soft, too, before he watched his mother waste away slowly in a hospital bed, before he saw a woman he once thought was the love of his life fall limp and lifeless into the ocean on a job gone wrong. They’re old wounds— long since healed— but deep ones, and the memories still ache sometimes like a bad joint when it rains. Makoto’s never been in love before. He doesn’t know what it’s like, and he doesn’t know how badly it hurts, either. Laurent feels like a piece of shit when he thinks about this, about how Makoto could probably lead a regular life and settle down with someone nice if Laurent could stop being selfish and let him go. He’s smart and kind and would have done just fine going to university or learning a trade if his family hadn’t fallen apart at the wrong moment. Makoto did pretty well at every random job they threw at him, and Laurent remembers the way he got genuinely upset every time they showed up to pull the rug out from under his feet and whisk him away on another con.

Laurent doesn’t know how to love without manipulation, anymore. Or maybe he does, but being honest feels much more frightening than lying at this point. So he’d jerked Makoto around and dragged him across continents and moved him like a pawn— partially to use him, partially just to see him again, for a long time. He would ask for forgiveness later, and Makoto would always give it in the end, even if he put up a fight first. But one day, after just barely making it back from a particularly exhausting escape, Makoto had broken down and cried, slumped over against Laurent’s shoulder from exhaustion and worry. He had begged Laurent to please, please stop lying to him, to just treat him as an equal and tell him what was going on, that he promised he wouldn’t mess things up for everyone if only Laurent promised not to make him worry anymore.

Laurent could deal with an angry Makoto— Makoto’s threats were mostly empty anyway and their arguments have become a well-worn routine at this point— but the sight of him shaking as hot tears dripped onto Laurent’s sleeve, choking back sobs like he didn’t want Laurent to hear him, had cracked something inside him. So he had promised, and ever since then, they worked together as partners, and he never hid things from Makoto again. It was good this way too, Makoto had proven himself to be an exceptionally quick learner and they made a strange but well-matched team. They're scamming an infamous Russian mobster this time, and Makoto had been the one to get them an in without even having to be kept in the dark first.

I’m selfish, Laurent thinks to himself again. The longer you live as a swindler, the harder it is to leave the lifestyle. If he were to give him a way out of here right now, Makoto might still be okay to take it, might live out the rest of his life as an honest man. Makoto has this kind of heartbreakingly genuine innocence that Laurent doesn’t think will ever truly die out. However, it does get a little dimmer every time Laurent takes him on another job and Makoto sees a little more cruelty, endures or inflicts a little more pain.

Laurent usually waves this train of thought off and reassures himself that he’s doing the kid a favour— without him, Makoto might still be stealing cash on the street and scavenging for scraps. Laurent's made him into something dangerous, molded him into something greater. But on nights like these, when he sees Makoto sleeping in the weak light of cheap lightbulbs and looking young and beautiful and utterly unspoiled by tragedy— he wonders if he’s actually just making excuses for ruining something precious.

He watches Makoto frown a little and make a soft little sound in his sleep, reaching out, fumblingly, for something or someone to hold. Oh, god, he’s a cuddler. It’s the cutest thing Laurent’s ever seen in his life.

He wants to slide into the narrow bed and wrap both his arms around him until the little crease in Makoto’s brow smooths out and he looks peaceful again. But Laurent knows he’s got a good thing right in front of him and he’s messed it up enough already, so instead he takes his own pillow off his bed and slides it over to where Makoto is reaching. He watches Makoto make another adorable little noise and clasp the pillow in his arms, snuggling right into it contentedly. It’s… incredibly sweet, and it reminds Laurent of something he hasn’t allowed himself to feel in a very, very long time, something soft and yearning from a time before he perfected the art of compartmentalization and learned to deflect all his feelings by becoming an outrageous flirt. Laurent doesn’t push the feeling away, but he doesn’t delve deeper into it either. He’s a little worried about where it might take him. He just lies awake in his own bed, using his jacket as a pillow, and aches quietly until the sun comes up.

They get into that awful car chase later, and when they’re surrounded completely by black vans and guards, Laurent opens his mouth to tell Makoto to make a run for it— he can distract the leader, Makoto needs to get away now while he still can— and sees that Makoto has instinctively put his arm up in front of Laurent to shield him from the gunmen, like he’s ready to protect him. Makoto, who’s soft and young and good and still rightfully terrified of violence, who’s been jerked around and betrayed by Laurent far too many times by this point, is raising up his own body to protect him automatically like he’d never think about doing anything different.

The crack inside Laurent deepens, splinters, breaks him all the way down the middle. Fuck it. Forget not delving any deeper into the ache. Laurent would rather walk straight into hell on broken glass then see this idiot get hurt. He’s a selfish scumbag and a thieving piece of shit and he’s falling for Makoto Edamura harder than a car rocketing off a cliff, ninety kilometers an hour, foot on the pedal, no brakes.

He takes off his tuxedo jacket— the entire suit is bespoke body armour, lighter and thinner but stronger than kevlar— and wraps it around Makoto’s thin shoulders, tells him to run on the count of three. Makoto hesitates, then nods, determined. He’s got to help the others. Laurent steps out unprotected into the ring of vehicles with his hands up above his head and his most winning smile on his face.

Gentlemen, he says. I come in peace! Let us work something out. He actually has no idea how he’s going to make it out of this one, but it doesn’t matter— he just needs to buy as much time as he can. _Please,_ he thinks, all the while he's talking. _Please let him make it back alive._

__

_Chengdu_

__

Being in love with Makoto is surprisingly easy, once he figures it out. Laurent knows Makoto doesn’t know, so he continues on as usual, teasing him to rile him up, flirting constantly to see him blush but never acting on it. He still feels guilty when he remembers how Makoto had cried when they made that promise— _please, Laurent, promise you’ll never lie to me again, please_ — so he doesn’t lie, exactly, he just doesn’t come forward with any type of confession. He answers every one of Makoto’s questions truthfully, and he doesn’t start hiding his attraction to him (after all, he’s never been subtle about that, why start now) or his affection for him, which grows by the day. He brings him gifts and calls him beautiful (this makes Makoto blush particularly violently, and he throws a paperweight at Laurent the first time but just looks hopelessly confused and flustered every time after that) and spends as much time with Makoto as he can. He doesn’t try to act like he’s not in love. He just doesn’t say the word.

Instead, he gets to know him— Makoto once sighed and said that it wasn’t fair that Laurent knew everything about him before they even met, whereas he had so much catching up to do, but this isn’t true. There’s so much to learn about Makoto that can’t be learned from shady old connections and a quick glance at his personal records. Laurent is perversely, intensely charmed by everything about him, from the way he fiddles with his hair and hands when he’s nervous to the slender lines of his body to the look of concentration he gets during target practice, determined to beat every record he sets for himself. Makoto is a fascinating mix of unintentionally hilarious cockiness and incredible vulnerability, and it’s so easy to be with him and talk to him. Laurent deals almost exclusively in flings and wild, impersonal, transactional sex, but he is never, ever bored when Makoto’s around.

He loves Makoto when he’s stubborn and noisy, going toe to toe with Laurent and arguing with him, dark eyes flashing like mica in a riverbed struck by the sun. He loves him when he’s soft and a little bit childish, collecting toys and stopping to pet and feed stray cats on the street. He loves him most of all when he surprises Laurent over and over again with his kindness and empathy, giving up his spot in the getaway car so they can rescue just one more child from the orphanage or wiring the lion’s share of his profits to the victims of an abusive company director. Laurent makes fun of him for this streak of martyrdom, but deep down he knows Makoto is probably a better man than he is and he never wants to see that part of him stamped out by bitterness.

So Laurent gets to know Makoto, and every waking hour he falls in love a little more. It’s like sinking into honey, or maybe quicksand. There's no point fighting it now, so he just… lets it happen. He fantasizes about things he hasn’t allowed himself to consider in years. Taking him out to dinner somewhere romantic and candlelit and kissing the wine from his lips. Buying him pretentiously symbolic courting flowers, like some kind of Victorian gentleman. Massaging the tension from his shoulders after a long day. Visiting all of Laurent’s favourite places, but this time together as a couple. Night swimming under the stars. Slow, sleepy morning sex, the kind that Laurent never gets to have with one-night stands. Learning all the places that make him sigh in pleasure. Waking up next to him every single day for as long as he lives.

Laurent might have forgotten how to love without manipulating at one point, but he’s relearning fast.

He doesn’t hide it, but he doesn’t take it further either. Makoto isn’t ready, and he doesn’t think of Laurent in that way, and sometimes Laurent still gets this fear that he’s holding something good and pure in his hands and ruining it. So he keeps sleeping with other people, the same he always has. Laurent is excellent at satisfying yet ultimately unemotional sex— he hasn’t always been good at it, he's a born romantic, used to put his heart into everything, and it left him empty. But he got better at distancing himself over the years, figuring there were probably worse vices to be a little addicted to, and he’s good at it now. Losing himself in the physical sensations, the heat and the sounds and the pressure of skin. He's always had an uncanny knack for reading people, and he loves making them feel good, so it works out well and he never has trouble finding willing partners. Though he’ll pay for it on occasion, still, when he really wants something specific and he’s short on time.

And so it goes, for a while. He spins out long, elaborate fantasies in his head about romancing Makoto and kissing him beneath the moonlight, and nurses the soft, warm ache inside him, and when it gets to be too much he goes out and finds someone to help him forget that Makoto doesn’t love him back no matter how hard he blushes when Laurent flirts with him.

Sometimes he finds a pretty girl at a bar or a club and lets her ride him, hard and fast, until he forgets the way Makoto smiles in his sleep when he's given something to hold. Or he goes to a cruising spot with half his shirt unbuttoned and opens his mouth invitingly for as many men as he can take, until he’s messy and overstimulated and a little fucked up. He always picks men who look nothing like Makoto, and he doesn’t know what that says about him. Maybe for all his fantasies, he’s scared of even getting a taste of the real deal.

Last month, they had flown to Sichuan together and Makoto had gone quiet mid-argument (a heated spat about the merits of the Oxford comma, Makoto arguing for it, Laurent arguing against just to play devil’s advocate) when they experienced heavy turbulence. Makoto had gone pale and clutched at Laurent’s arm. Please distract me, he had whispered, uncharacteristically small, and Laurent had felt his heart melt at the trusting gesture, at Makoto’s slender hands gripping his coat. He ended up telling him stories about childhood— his classes, Christmas in Brussels, music and language lessons, schoolyard crushes— until he felt Makoto’s hands loosen and his breathing begin to even out. The stories poured out of him; silly, happy memories he hadn’t allowed himself to revisit in years. Makoto had laughed when Laurent told him about driving his piano instructor to distraction as a sentimental middle schooler with his obsession with Romantic-era composers, constantly abandoning the technical exercises and studies he was assigned to pore over Liszt and Chopin and Debussy.

“Why can I totally see that happening? A little version of you, already probably a snob, dressed in a sweater vest or something and getting into trouble for playing too many love songs.”

“‘Romantic’ doesn’t necessarily mean love songs, actually, it’s just the name of the artistic movement following the Classical-”

“-Yeah, yeah, I know, it’s one of your lame old man music things. I googled it last time. But you definitely played love songs, didn’t you?”

“...Yes. That is fair. I did.”

“I knew it! I can picture it so well. You only look cool on the outside. You’re actually really lame.” Makoto’s voice had been teasing, but he was smiling down at his lap, looking fond. He didn’t look scared anymore, but he held onto Laurent’s arm for a little longer anyway.

Laurent had looked at him in the light of the little airplane window, still smiling, blue sky illuminating him from the back so all the little wisps and cowlicks in his unruly hair were glowing like a halo. He had wanted Makoto to hold on forever.

That night, when they got off the plane, Laurent called up a local dominatrix and arranged to meet her at a hotel. He didn’t usually go for hardcore play like this— preferred to take care of his partners, and meet them organically— but he needed to be taken out of his own head for a little while and he figured this was the next best thing to a high. It was good, and he’d enjoyed it, being tied and gagged and blindfolded expertly until he couldn’t think of anything at all— not even his own name, much less Makoto’s fond little smile on the plane ride. But then the scene was over and morning came, and he felt the exact same yearning creep into his chest when he snuck quietly back into the room the team was sharing and saw Makoto and Abbie passed out in boredom (and jet lag) over a stack of case files. Makoto had his cheek pushed up against a briefcase awkwardly, and Abbie was snoring; they looked almost like two kids sprawled out over each other at a sleepover, if you ignored all the crime evidence around them.

Cynthia was still working on her laptop, and looked up at Laurent, took in the rope marks on his wrists and the redness of his mouth and the new bruises on his neck. She knew instantly where he’d been. He waited for some kind of admonishment, but it didn’t come. Cynthia had just pursed her lips and looked at him sadly.

“Maybe you should try asking for what you want, Laurent.”

Great, so she knew. He almost buckled right then and there and asked for advice, but he was still getting into the habit of sharing— Makoto was something of an exception, when it came to pulling things out of him. So he had flirted, deflected again, delayed the inevitable.

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean. I got what I wanted last night.” He tugged the neckline of his shirt down with one finger, to show the red imprint where he had been collared, and winked.

Cynthia hadn’t bought it one bit, but she’d let it slide, and Laurent was grateful afterwards that she had tried.

Once, years ago during an after-heist party, back when Laurent and Makoto were still fighting like cats and dogs and he was only just beginning to realize he might be a little bit in love, he had met a pretty, dark-skinned young man and taken him up to his room. Laurent didn’t generally sleep with coworkers within the crime organization, but the man was from a different team anyway— mostly behind-the-scenes work, specializing in disguises— and they’d never crossed paths before. Besides, Laurent was maybe-probably-definitely falling for Makoto Edamura, so he thought he might as well cross this boundary too while he’s at it. The man had cocked a perfectly sculpted eyebrow at him and tipped his head towards Makoto, across the room, who was standing against the wall looking nervous and drinking a can of mango juice.

“What about him? I thought you were together.” The pretty man’s name was Adi. He spoke with a smooth, lilting accent.

“We’re not like that,” replied Laurent, trying to sound casual; it wasn’t worth explaining. But the bitter twist of his mouth gave him away. Maybe he was losing his touch.

Adi had raised both his eyebrows, then, in sympathetic understanding. “Ah, I see.” He murmured something in Hindi under his breath. “I just assumed, from the way you look at him…” he trailed off. “Well. I suppose it isn’t any of my business.”

Then he had turned to Laurent and wrapped his arms around his neck, smiling coyly.

“Want me to make you feel better, loverboy?”

So Laurent had taken him upstairs and done his best to forget while Adi made good on his offer, practiced and smooth in his sensuality. He was objectively gorgeous, dark curled lashes and manicured nails and gleaming skin, but when they lay panting and flushed on the bed together afterwards and Adi started pulling on his clothes to leave, Laurent could only think about how Makoto would probably be nothing like him. He’d probably be clumsy and awkward and too gentle, afraid of hurting him, or too rough, not knowing any better. He’d be eager and entirely graceless, and despite just having had three rounds of absolutely incredible sex, Laurent knew he wanted that— wanted Makoto, open, honest, uncalculated— so much he couldn’t breathe.

Adi had given him a long, level look before he left. “You should try telling him you like him,” he said.

“I’m not hiding it.” It was true. Laurent had promised not to lie, but they hadn’t said anything about omission.

“Oh, Laurent. We both know that isn’t the same thing.”

And Laurent couldn’t argue, so he just watched him go, feeling a little hollow inside. Tired and warm, all wrung out, but still not satisfied. He had wondered for the first time that night if his whole thing about sex being a relatively harmless vice might have been an excuse, as well.

Anyway. Here they are now, in a tiny restaurant in Chengdu, Sichuan, hiding out in a Linpan settlement out in the countryside and waiting on a delivery. They’d left the city center a few weeks ago. Laurent’s made his peace with being helplessly, stupidly in love, and he’s given up on his strategy of using sex as a distraction ever since that night with the hired domme (if a literal whip-cracking professional isn’t going to cut it, he’s not sure anyone can) and the embarrassment of having Cynthia see right through him.

He and Makoto have settled into a comfortable friendship at this point, still partially rivals but mostly companions. Laurent is so happy just talking with him, being around him, that he thinks to himself, this is enough. This is good. Don’t mess this up.

Makoto likes it here, the farms and animals and all the fresh air. Laurent’s always been more of a city person, but he watches Makoto talk happily about how the tall grasses in the plains moved like waves (“Come out on a walk with me next time, Laurent! They go ‘whoosh’ when the wind blows!”) and he wants to take him to the seaside.

They’re playing the favourites game today, eating from each other’s plates and bouncing questions back and forth. Makoto is laughing at some joke Laurent made, eyes bright and dancing with humour. His cheeks and nose are still a little red from his outdoor walk in the brisk air, and he’s got a smudge of bean paste on the corner of his mouth. He’s the most perfect thing Laurent’s ever seen.

“Favourite person,” says Makoto, still laughing, wiping the sweetness from his cheek and popping his finger in his mouth to suck it clean.

Laurent has no choice, really, in his reply. He already knows what he’s going to say. It’s always going to be the same answer. It’s always going to be Makoto.

_Bucharest_

__

To be honest, the first time Laurent gets an inkling that Makoto may be attracted to him is the time with a razor in a hotel bathroom, a few weeks after Makoto had woken him gently from a nightmare and they’d stayed up all night together talking about the past while Makoto picked every lock in the room and beat Laurent’s best time by two whole seconds. Laurent had just broken his own hand to get out of the trap the Romanian henchmen had handcuffed him in, and though he’s had worse in terms of pain and would do it again in a heartbeat if he had to, he doesn’t like the limited mobility that comes with healing. The first two fingers on his left hand are stuck in a splint, so he hasn’t been able to shave properly in more than a week. He hates the look and feel of stubble on his face, rough and uneven and unkempt.

He complains about it to Makoto one day, moping over his reflection in the bathroom mirror— he looks terrible, sloppy, covered in fuzz. Makoto goes strangely quiet, and Laurent thinks he hears him mumble that Laurent always looks good, even when he’s fuzzy. But when Laurent tries to get him to repeat it, louder, Makoto’s ears go red, and he clams up and starts looking around for something to throw. There’s nothing but his own toiletries on the counter and Laurent’s shaving kit, though, so he gives up and picks up Laurent’s razor instead, turning it over in his hands.

It’s an old-fashioned habit Laurent has, shaving with a traditional straight-edge razor. It’s a little trickier and more dangerous, but it’s cleaner, and it gives a closer shave that he can’t replicate with disposable or electric razors. He picked up the habit from a barber in Italy years ago, and now he does it himself almost every morning.

Makoto is looking between the leather strop and the blade in his hands, curious. “Isn’t it hard to do it this way? Don’t you ever cut yourself?”

“I did the first time I tried, but you get the hang of it pretty quickly. It’s nice to do things the slow way, sometimes.”

“It figures that you’d have to be weird about this, as if your life isn’t dangerous enough,” sighs Makoto. “Just use one of those plastic ones like everyone else.”

Right, Makoto wouldn’t know. He wakes up every morning fresh and baby-faced, and never once gets a five-o’clock shadow along his jaw. Laurent finds it to be yet another one of Makoto’s many endearing quirks, but he doesn’t think Makoto would appreciate him pointing it out right now— he’d probably just think Laurent was making fun of him again.

“When have I ever minded a little danger? Besides, it’s worth it. You really do get a cleaner shave with a real blade. Not that it’s coming in handy right now.” He dangles his useless left hand out in front of him. “You need both hands to use a straight edge, so you can pull your skin taut to avoid cuts.”

“I still can’t believe you broke your own fingers in that warehouse.” Makoto actually looks distressed. He had stayed by Laurent’s side the whole time, last week, when he was getting his bones set back into place, wincing like he could feel the pain himself. Laurent’s big stupid heart warms all over again at the concern.

“I’m fine, darling. Don’t you worry about me.” Makoto’s ears go red again. “The only thing annoying me is this hideous beard.”

Makoto looks down at the razor in his hand, contemplatively. “Um. What if- I mean, you said it wasn’t too hard, right?” His neck goes red to match his ears. It’s precious. “What if… I helped?”

Laurent imagines Makoto leaning in close and pressing the blade to his bared throat, caressing his face. Makoto is blushing already, but he probably doesn’t fully realize how intimate this would be. Laurent had once seduced a man by pulling this exact move on him, gliding a razor smoothly across his jaw and watching him shiver in a heady mix of fear and anticipation. By the time he was rinsing the suds away and wiping his face with a cloth, the man had been trembling with the effort of staying still, eyes glazed, and had sunk onto his knees in front of Laurent immediately to mouth at his cock.

But Laurent is a weak, weak man, and he also really does want this horrible stubble gone, so he keeps his voice light and says, “I’d love that. Thank you! Come here, I’ll teach you. I promise you won’t hurt me.”

Makoto watches attentively as Laurent unfolds the razor— it looks lethal already, sharp and glinting— and runs the blade across the smooth leather in a practiced motion.

“This aligns the edge and gets rid of any dents,” explains Laurent. Makoto nods. Laurent pours a few drops of rosehip oil from a glass bottle onto his good hand, using the dropper, and massages it into his face. Makoto watches with his head cocked to the side, puppy-like. “This softens the skin,” continues Laurent. Then he hands the razor to Makoto and seats himself on the edge of the bathtub.

He tries not to think about the loaded implications of literally handing the man he loves a weapon that could kill him, sitting back, and baring his throat in absolute trust. It doesn’t work.

Laurent spreads his legs to let Makoto closer so he can reach. “Come here. You’ll need to look carefully.” Makoto swallows, eyes very wide, and steps between his thighs. His hips are so narrow. They could fit together perfectly, if only Laurent closed the gap and pulled him in. He closes his uninjured hand over Makoto’s hand holding the razor and presses it against his face to show him the proper angle. Makoto’s breath hitches. He looks so beautiful. Laurent wants to devour him.

“Start here, see this patch up top?” He tips his head back and turns his face a little, looking at Makoto through his lashes. He knows this is a good angle on him, and Makoto seems to think so too, big brown eyes going dark. Laurent can hear him trying to control his breathing, forcing his exhales to remain slow and steady, shuddering a little. The tension between them is heady, palpable. God, what is he doing? “Just skim the razor along that, from top to bottom.”

Makoto visibly forces himself to focus, pressing the edge of the blade to Laurent’s cheek and beginning to glide downwards. His breathing is still a little shuddery, but his hands are steady, his touch light. Makoto’s always been good with his hands. It’s thrilling to be the target of his attention when he’s like this, expression focused and steely.

“That’s it,” murmurs Laurent. “See? When the blade is sharp enough, it’s easier to move.” Makoto gulps and skims the razor lower. Laurent feels incredibly vulnerable like this, their faces close enough that he could kiss Makoto if he leaned in one direction, the blade feather-light against his skin, so sharp that it could cut him open if he moved the other way.

Makoto could do anything he wanted to him right now and Laurent would let him. He’d kiss Makoto forever. He’d bruise his knees on the cold bathroom tile for the chance. He’d tip his head back even further in submission and let him slit his throat.

Laurent thinks back to that first time, all those years ago, seeing Makoto on the street in Asakusa and wanting to get his hands on him and ruin him. He thinks, right now, that it’s the other way around. Makoto is watching him with those big, dark eyes, scraping the razor delicately down his face, lips parted like he wants to lean in and taste. This stubborn, clever, wonderful man has ruined him for anyone else. He’s taken Laurent apart completely without laying a finger on him.

Makoto is almost done; he’s working on Laurent’s jaw now. A quick study, as always. He’s smoothing one hand over Laurent’s newly exposed cheek, feeling his own handiwork— he hasn’t missed a single spot. Laurent feels unexpectedly naked, bare-faced for the first time in a week. Makoto’s hands are smaller than Laurent’s and his touch is gentle, but his fingers are calloused and rough.

“Good job,” Laurent whispers. His voice is hoarse, even though neither of them have been moving. Makoto’s breath goes shuddery again.

“You’re doing wonderfully. Good boy.”

Makoto gasps at the praise— a lovely sound— and fumbles, pulling away quickly so he doesn’t hurt Laurent and nicking himself in the process. The razor clatters to the ground. Laurent, worried, grabs Makoto’s hand to examine it. Good, it’s just a tiny scratch, and shallow. The smallest drop of blood is welling up on his fingertip.

“Sorry! I’m sorry-” breathes out Makoto, but then Laurent, without thinking, brings his bleeding fingertip to his lips and swipes the tip of his tongue over the cut, soothing the sting. It’s a brief touch, but horrendously, beautifully intimate; the taste of someone else’s blood in his mouth, the metallic tang of it. The touch barely lasts for a second, but it’s still too much. Makoto is backing away, breathing like he’s just run a marathon. He looks about as wrecked as Laurent feels, mouth open, eyes blown wide and dark, his whole body tight with want. He runs away and slams the bathroom door behind him.

Shit. Laurent took it too far. He’s a weak man, so he doesn’t go after Makoto, doesn’t have the conversation he knows they should probably be having. Instead, he locks the door, picks up the razor with shaking hands, and finishes the job himself, splashing his face clean. Then he collapses against the sink, undoes his pants, and jerks himself off fast and punishingly hard, biting his lip to keep quiet, thinking about Makoto caressing his cheek, pressing the razor to his neck, leaning in closer.

He feels his lower lip split open when he comes, and tastes his own blood mingling with Makoto’s on his tongue.

God, Laurent is so fucked up. There’s a chance that Makoto wants him back, but that doesn’t mean much in the long run if he doesn’t want a relationship. It’s taken him years to go from enemies to rivals to partners to best friends, and he’s not going to terrify Makoto with the enormity of what he feels for him. So the two of them add it to the growing pile of things they don’t talk about, slot it neatly between Laurent’s flirtations and Makoto’s insults. Laurent lies awake in his hotel bed, scrolling through a file on his computer about chemical weapons, and Makoto goes to sleep in his own bed two metres away like nothing happened.

They’re gearing up to take down an illegal weapons dealer next. Laurent reads for a long time, so he won’t be tempted to watch Makoto sleep again. Arsenicals, blister agents, nerve gas, sulfur. The thing about chemical weapon agents is this: you can’t run from them, in a closed space. Gases fill the volume of whatever container they’re in, instantly. Let a container of cyanide loose and it will expand into the entire room.

Makoto Edamura does the same thing to Laurent. Let him loose and he'll take up all the space inside his head. Laurent’s a touchy person, quick to kiss and hug when he likes someone. He’s also been in twelve-person orgies, taken shots of rum off a woman’s naked body, and let strangers grope him at a leather club. And yet every time Makoto is the one to initiate contact first— not just responding to Laurent’s little touches, but leaning into him, squeezing his hand, running up to throw his arms around him— the contact seems to worm its way through his entire system and warm his whole being. It’s not just physical, either. Makoto walks into a room and Laurent sees him, hears him laugh, thinks about him, and he loves him so much that it seems to fill his lungs, his mind.

Laurent cares about his other teammates and he’d probably take a bullet for any of them if it came down to it, but none of them really talk about the past if they can help it (Makoto’s the only one who’s been changing that, the glue holding them together). Laurent likes being fun, and giving the impression that he doesn’t care very much about anything at all. He’s usually good at compartmentalizing. He’s gotten better at it with time, shutting different memories and parts of himself behind different doors in his mind, tucking old hurts and joys into boxes so he can focus on the good parts. Makoto walks into the maze-like storage unit of his brain and blows all the doors clean off their hinges, unchains every padlock without even trying until Laurent is raw and exposed.

And then he looks at the mess, looks at Laurent’s flaws and all the people he’s ever hurt and the deaths he still dreams about and the soft parts of himself he hasn’t managed to kill yet, and he stays. Three weeks ago in this very room in Bucharest, Laurent had gasped awake from yet another nightmare about drowning, sweating through the sheets. And Makoto had just… ridden it out with him, unflinchingly. Sat beside him, shoulders brushing, until the sun came up.

Laurent finishes the file and closes his laptop. Makoto is reaching out, nuzzling in his sleep again, the gesture familiar by now but no less adorable. Laurent gives him his pillow again. He’s afraid that if he doesn’t, he’ll do something stupid like push their beds together and give Makoto his arm instead.

(Makoto wakes up often these days with two pillows in his own bed, and never questions why. He figures Laurent probably likes to sleep without one.)

_Maui_

Laurent had spotted a familiar scheming glint in Cynthia’s eye when she sent the two of them here to impersonate a married couple, but he hadn’t questioned it. He doesn’t really mind; again, he isn’t hiding the fact that he’s in love, he’s just not saying anything either. Ever since Makoto’s induction into their little group, they’ve gotten to know each other a little better, and he trusts her not to meddle in any way that might cause real harm. He thought this would probably be the easiest lie of his life, pretending to be head over heels for Makoto— he’d basically just continue being himself, hiding in plain sight.

He hadn’t expected Makoto to start flirting back. He’s becoming impossible to resist, one moment becoming incredibly bold, pushing himself into Laurent’s space like he’s daring him to make a move, the next moment looking furiously shy when Laurent compliments him in public. Laurent flirts a little more, lets his touches linger. Makoto responds greedily, pushing back and silently demanding more, like a dam has recently burst inside him and he’s trying to get as much of Laurent’s attention as he’s willing to give.

Laurent is willing to give all of it, honestly, and this new dynamic between them is absolutely intoxicating, but he’s also not sure what it is. Makoto could be trying to prove a point, plotting to seduce him in some misguided attempt to get one over on him. Maybe it’s a competitive thing, or an experimental phase. He wants to step past the boundary Makoto keeps stretching and give him what he wants, but Laurent’s so gone on him at this point that he knows he’ll break his own heart if he lets himself have this— a one-night stand, a shameful secret— only to never have it again. Makoto is incredibly cute when he’s like this, cocky and shy all at once, and so ridiculously tempting, but Laurent pictures him leaving the morning after and pretending nothing happened, or regretting the whole thing and hissing at Laurent to never tell anyone what they did together in the dark, and he feels his insides turn to ice.

So he doesn’t give in, even when it becomes clearer and clearer what Makoto’s pushing for, even when Makoto responds to a teasing peck with a full-on kiss on the tennis court and opens his hot little mouth for more and Laurent wants to give it to him so badly it hurts. Makoto wanders around in Laurent’s clothing and very little else, too-wide shirt necklines slipping off and revealing his collarbones and shoulders, pyjama tops looking adorably oversized and barely hitting his bare thighs. He doesn’t have any idea how good he looks, so Laurent doesn’t say a word, just starts taking very, very long showers so he can get himself off beneath the hot spray and vividly picture tearing off Makoto’s underwear with his teeth. Makoto bites his lip and asks to sit on his lap when there aren’t enough chairs, and Laurent feels his brain short-circuit— beep beep, blue screen, laurent.exe has crashed— thinking about all the things they could do in that position. He freezes until he’s regained use of his speech abilities and moves them to another table.

Still, the days pass, sunlit and happy; Laurent shaves in front of the mirror while Makoto yawns and runs a brush through his mop of messy hair (it’s a losing battle, but he tries anyway) in the mornings. They drink coffee together and people-watch on the balcony, they argue about old movies, Makoto teases Laurent about his sweet tooth and lets him finish his share of dessert. Makoto gives up, little by little, on trying to stay on his own side of the bed at night. He runs away again the first time they wake up tangled together, embarrassed, but after that initial night he stops fighting it and lingers a little longer every time he burrows into Laurent’s chest like it’s the most comfortable he’s ever been. Laurent gets to wake up every morning with an armful of soft, sleepy Makoto nestled against him and loves it more than anything, even if Makoto digs a bony elbow into his stomach or lies on his arm until it gets numb. He never moves until Makoto wakes up, wanting it to last as long as possible.

The intense flirting is just another layer on top of their already comfortable relationship, and doesn’t change the way they bicker about small things and joke around, or replace their little exchanges of affection. Laurent swims a lot, and plays businessman for Vandermeer, and through it all he lets himself imagine what it might be like to be married to Makoto for real. He’s never had a summer romance before, and he thinks, with a wry smile at his own sentimentality, that this might be the closest thing he’ll ever get.

That is, until one night it all comes to a head and it turns out Makoto loves him too.

Makoto is looking down at his feet after his last and very nearly successful seduction attempt, that stupid beautiful robe hanging off his shoulders in a way that makes Laurent want to simultaneously tear all his hair out and send Cynthia a fruit basket for packing it. He’s stumbling artlessly, earnestly, through the most awkward love confession Laurent’s ever heard.

“Uh, I’ve never had a boyfriend, so I’m not good at this, but I- I like it when you’re with me, and when you talk to me, and I want to be together a lot…” Makoto is fidgeting with his hands and looking away like he isn’t breaking Laurent’s entire brain into pieces and rearranging it, like he isn’t telling Laurent something so wildly beautiful that he hadn’t seen it coming in a million years.

Laurent is good at reading people. He thought he was reading all the signs correctly, thought he knew what Makoto wanted. He’s been resigned to the idea of loving him in silence until he died for so long that the idea that that might not be necessary doesn’t seem real. But he thinks about Makoto asking him to wait for him on the beach in California, how Laurent had given him nothing but radio silence for two years and then yanked him right back into his life because he didn’t know how else to be with him. He thinks about Makoto, who liked to pretend he wasn’t afraid of anything, coming to Laurent when he was scared— of spiders, heights, horror movies, dying— and then later, holding onto him even when he wasn’t scared. He thinks about the way he had sharpened a blade in Bucharest without hesitating and handed it over to Makoto and told him to press it to his neck, knowing he’d never hurt him.

Laurent thinks about all the people he’s slept with to try to forget about being in love, and then he thinks about Makoto trying to push Laurent into meaningless sex. Of course he’d do that, it’s all he’s ever seen him want in the past. Laurent has been going about this all wrong. He’s always been good at reading people, but at this point it almost figures that Makoto, an exception to every single goddamned thing in Laurent’s life, would surprise him in this way too.

Makoto loves him. He feels delirious with joy. Laurent doesn’t think he’s felt this way inside since he was very young— every nook and scar and jagged edge in his being awash with light.

Makoto’s cheeks are going pink, and he’s mumbling that he wants it to mean something, and Laurent is so wildly, unbelievably happy that he laughs out loud, unable to contain it. He thinks about Adi looking behind him as he closed the bedroom door; _you should try telling him you like him_. Cynthia in China, watching him with sad eyes. _Ask for what you want, Laurent._ Laurent looks Makoto right in the eyes and finally, finally does just that.

“I adore you,” he says. “I want everything with you. I love you to death.”

_Bruges_

They’re lying in bed together again, listening to the song of the raindrops hitting the roof of the safe house. Laurent has his nose in a Japanese textbook again, and Makoto is writing his name on Laurent’s bare chest with his fingertip to teach him. The character for “person” or “human” is easy— Laurent knows that one already. The character for “honest” is harder.

Makoto is wearing one of Laurent’s shirts again, this time an old sleep tee, the fabric faded and soft from many washes. Laurent had made good on his promise earlier and taken him shopping for nice clothes, but when they’re alone, Makoto still prefers to steal from his closet. Laurent had cocked his head to the side when he caught Makoto digging through his sweaters last week, asking him why he was borrowing again when he had his own share of perfectly good clothing now. He hadn’t been prepared for Makoto to blush furiously and then bury his face in an armload of sweaters to hide it.

“They’re… comfortable,” he’d mumbled. “And I like the way you smell.”

Laurent’s heart had melted on the spot, and he’d vowed never to complain again. Of course, Makoto had found out shortly afterwards exactly how much Laurent liked it too, and used this information against him in the most delightful way. He’d learned quickly that wearing something of Laurent’s— a top, or an oversized sweater, with nothing else— was an extremely effective way to get his attention.

Right now, with the gentle thumping of rain overhead, Makoto looks pensive. He stills his hand and looks up at Laurent.

“When did you know you loved me?” he asks, out of the blue. “You sounded so sure, when you said it. I know you said it was kind of… at first sight, but we didn’t really know each other back then.”

Laurent puts his book face-down on the mattress, creasing the spine. He turns so he’s facing Makoto.

“Like, I think I’ve felt it for a while, but it took me a really long time to realize,” Makoto continues. I kept pushing it away because I kind of hated you at the same time and didn’t want to... lose?” Laurent exhales, a soft little laugh. That was so like Makoto.

“I don’t know,” he replies honestly. “I’ve known for much longer than you, I think— maybe a few years? Probably back in Russia. But I’ve liked you since the beginning.”

“Wait, Moscow was a really long time ago. Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Why didn’t you?”

“I did, actually! Remember? I mean, fine, I didn’t at first, but then you dragged it out of me like two weeks later. And I asked you first, asshole.” Makoto bats at Laurent’s chest weakly, like an angry kitten.

“Same reason that you didn’t say anything at first, then. I didn’t think it was reciprocated.” Makoto goes quiet at this. Laurent waits.

“It… it’s like falling asleep,” says Makoto, softly, not meeting his eyes. “At least it was like that for me. Being in love, I mean. Um. God, this is so embarrassing.”

“Darling, we are _literally in a relationship_. I love you more than my own life. I told you immediately after our first time that I’d been mentally planning our honeymoon for months.”

“I know! But it’s still embarrassing to say it sometimes! It sounds so… mushy.” Makoto makes a face.

“But I love hearing it! Come on, tell me more. You said it was like falling asleep.”

“Yeah. Like, I don’t really know exactly when it happened for me, and no one ever remembers the exact moment they fall asleep. It happens slowly, really slowly, little by little, without you having to try. Your eyes close, and then all at once you’re out and you wake up and it’s morning. Falling in… in love, um. It was like that. I didn’t feel it coming until I was already there, and then it was too late.”

Laurent laughs, but he feels a curious warm sensation, like his heart is expanding in his chest. Yes, that was it exactly. Slowly, slowly, then all at once. He loves him so much.

“Too late? You make me sound like a terrible curse.”

“You are! I told you, you’re the most annoying person I’ve ever met, and you suck, and I’m stuck being in love with you forever,” Makoto grumbles, flopping over so Laurent can’t see his face. Laurent doesn’t let him escape, just rolls over right along with him and hugs him from the back.

 _Forever_ , he thinks, the word echoing in his mind. Later on, they’ll make love again, slow and lazy and not even bothering to get fully undressed, Makoto seated on his lap still wearing his shirt and grinding his hips in small circles as he keens into Laurent’s shoulder, eyes fluttering shut. They’ll get up and fetch those new bugs delivered by the hacking team, and then maybe they’ll go to the art museum together and see those Bosch paintings Laurent likes in person.

In three more months, the mission will wrap up and they’ll leave Bruges. In three years’ time, they’ll be married in Barcelona after a mission takes them to Spain, narrowly missing their reservation at city hall due to a stakeout. Nothing about it will be traditional, exactly— Makoto in a priceless vintage hakama stolen from a wealthy fashion magnate they just scammed, Laurent in a white designer suit, the reception party populated entirely by thieves and con artists— but nothing between them ever is, and they’ll be perfectly happy anyway.

For now, Laurent just holds Makoto tighter and nuzzles into Makoto’s neck where he knows he’s ticklish, pulling a laugh out of him. He thinks about how long it took him to get here, how foolish he was, and he feels nothing but gratitude in every bone of his body.

**Author's Note:**

> Remember how I said I was going to do something short and sexy for the Laurent POV? That, uh, obviously didn't happen. This is nearly 10k straight of pining. I'm fascinated by the idea of Laurent as someone who oscillates between chaotic good and chaotic neutral, who is obviously very fond of Edamura in canon but also has no qualms about using him or anyone else as a means to an end. His justice is the kind that's more preoccupied with punishing the bad than actively helping the good, and I wanted to explore that a little. He's also got a past that's just as traumatic as Makoto's but deals with it in a very different way; Makoto gets upset or angry, straightforwardly, but Laurent seems unruffled by everything, and I wondered if it might be a practiced deflection he developed over time. So I wrote this to kind of fill in the gaps that I set up in ltwicd (I realized I made up a lot of fictional cases haha) and dig into all the feelings hiding beneath the surface. It was really fun to write about all these little things, like Makoto being a cuddly sleeper/kind of naïve but also tough/not fully realizing he has feelings for Laurent/etc. from a different angle.
> 
> I'm down to actually deliver on that short sexy sequel but if it ever happens, it's not going to be right away! I've just written 35000 words in like, 10 days, and I've really got to catch up on my schoolwork. You can find me on twitter in the meantime here and talk to me about these two or any other ship: 
> 
> https://twitter.com/Iavender_dew
> 
> actual notes: 
> 
> \- title is once again from make me an offer I cannot refuse by sufjan stevens, same song as last time. I'm just gonna go ahead and make that the name of this universe, I happened to be listening to it a lot when I started the writing process and these 2 lines in particular felt like they really fit for their respective stories
> 
> \- chengdu in sichuan province is not a rural city, but there are rural, agricultural areas inside in the basin/plains called the linpan settlements. that's where the favourites scene happens
> 
> \- adi was meant to be a throwaway character but he really stuck in my head and I ended up liking him! the phrase he mutters is  
> प्यार में डूबा, which roughly means "lovestruck". the guy from the disguise department I mentioned in ltwicd who was in on cynthia's betting pool? that's him! he bet on them getting together before the trip was over, by the way. the exchange went something like this: 
> 
> abbie: no one understands how stupid they both are, I've been around laurent for years at this point and he still hasn't made a move. they're not going to figure it out until they're eighty
> 
> adi: no YOU don't understand, I've seen that man an hour and three orgasms deep and somehow still hung up on that bean boy. I know for a fact I'm a terrific lay and I could tell he was still thinking about someone else. he's in love
> 
> abbie: gross
> 
> cynthia: so a hundred bucks on edamame getting his man then [shakes his hand]
> 
> \- laurent does end up sending cynthia a fruit basket, actually, one that's mostly just wine
> 
> \- comma use in japanese is pretty liberal and the oxford comma tends to make writing easier/clearer, so I think mako, someone who learned english as his second language after japanese, would be in favour of using it. laurent's just arguing to tease him
> 
> \- mako mentions laurent's liking for classical music in the first story, but that's because he didn't know much about it and considers all old-timey stuff to be classical. I used to play piano myself and I'm transplanting my love for romanticism onto laurent, I think it really suits him. the composers I mentioned are all a bit unconventional, difficult, and very sentimental/emotional in their music
> 
> \- I've projected my love for the works of hieronymous bosch onto him as well. idk if this is 100% in character but I do think they'd have a pretty good time at a bosch exhibit, his paintings are so weird that they'd definitely have lots to talk about lol. it'd be a fun thing to do if you happened to be in town, you know?
> 
> \- I mentioned mako taking self-defence classes in the last piece and I was going to write a scene where he spars with laurent and it's funny and competitive but also sexually charged, but then the shaving scene alone ended up being like 4 pages long and I didn't go for it. just please imagine that in your heads because it definitely happened at some point


End file.
